


Since you've been around

by Rusty_Angel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rusty_Angel/pseuds/Rusty_Angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short vignette about haunting nightmares</p><p>(Not beta'd)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since you've been around

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Lyrics: Hey baby, thanks for clearing my dreams,  
> Of all those horror scenes which crept in uninvited.

When Sherlock was young, he started to have those nightmares, the worst kind he ever experienced. He was in a house, or a mansion, alone, walking the long empty corridors with endless doors to endless rooms. All were open and all were the same, filled with books up to the ceiling. Sometimes the books were stacked neatly on the shelves, sometimes they were thrown haphazardly on the floor; sometimes they covered all the surfaces, bed, desk, and chair.

All books seemed very interesting. They had those enticing titles that whispered about poisons, murders and mysteries; about weapons and crimes; about what made people tick. They all held promises of knowledge, yet undiscovered, but waiting for Sherlock and Sherlock only.

But when he picked up a book (and he always did, that's how the nightmare worked, he knew he shouldn't but in his dreams he couldn't control his impulses, another scary thing to be afraid of) and cracked it open, the pages were blank. So he cracked another, and then another, frantically, and they were all blank, all pages white and empty.

There was nothing new to learn.

***

John dreamt of war again.

They were in a camp, he and his fellow soldiers from his company, when the first missile hit the tent next to theirs, sending a wave of sand mixed with bloody body parts into the air. He got hurt and had to crawl out, half blind and half deaf; the shrapnel got stuck in his leg. He knew he was the medic, that his duty was to help the other wounded people but he was in no shape to do that. He could only crawl to the safe dug-out, hoping that another missile wouldn't hit near, reduced to chanting in his head "pleasegodletmeliveiwanttolive". There were screaming people everywhere, some barking orders, some crying out for help, some cursing the attackers. Someone was shooting back from where the missile came, using grenade launcher. Chaos was overwhelming, threatening to posses him as well, but he stayed cool, focused on one thing only.

John crawled to the shelter, to the false safety it provided. Meter after meter, his arms hurt, his leg bled, and he crawled and crawled, leaving a red trail behind him, probably damaging further his muscle, like a maggot in the dirt.

In his dreams he never got there.

***

They often met in the kitchen in the wee hours of the night, Sherlock and John, both with dark circles under their eyes, with tired wrinkles around their mouths. They knew sleep deprivation was going to take its toll on them but going to back to sleep wasn't an option.

They sat at the table instead, both of them warming their cold hands wrapped tightly around hot cups of tea that John usually made. They never really talked; their nightmares weren't something they felt comfortable to discuss during chilly autumn nights. They both had their personal demons and they wanted to keep them private.

Maybe Sherlock deduced what kept John awake, brilliant detective that he was. Maybe John was never able to guess what haunted Sherlock's dreams and he gave up thinking about it altogether.

It didn't really matter. What matter was that both of them had a companion, someone they could rely on when things got out of control. In the warm kitchen they assured each other of the presence of worldly things. There were Sherlock's experiments on the counter, John's laptop next to his elbow, maybe severed body parts in the fridge, sometimes Mrs. Hudson left them biscuits to munch. But most importantly, there was John in one of his woolly jumpers and pajamas bottom, there was Sherlock in his blue dressing gown, tucking his bare feet under himself to make them warm.

And after they drunk their tea, they got back to their rooms, bravely facing the inevitable. They tucked themselves into cold sheets and blankets and went back to sleep.

***

But somehow, the nightmares never came back on those nights.

**Author's Note:**

> I might have "borrowed" the Afghanistan story from someone I know...


End file.
